Lose everything. Identity.
The infinite pages between sheets. Divided.
This life. This life.
Are you prepared? This breath at last. Another?
This autonomy. Faded monsters.
Loose the umbilical. Slip into the galactic noise.
Can this be returned?
This ego falls. Deeper.
This character on the moon. Stars spinning.
These false numbers written in powder. How can I trust this light?
The skeptical memory fades and swoons. This pencil between the eye.
I ask not your beg, and pardon not why.
The star stuff torn apart and swirling years.
Ah, those lungs still course. Bones in hand.
Clay under the nails and the taste of tongue. Claw marks in the skull.
Escape seems impossible in awakened day.
Wet, layered paint still on the walls.